


Until It Wasn't

by WitsWrackspurts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aurors, Blood, Blood and Gore, Confusion, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Crossover, Gen, I don't know what to tag I'm sorry, Minor Character Death, Murder, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor John, Recommend tags please, Violence, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-09 21:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20516729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitsWrackspurts/pseuds/WitsWrackspurts
Summary: Sherlock was completely sure that he had his life sorted out, he had an arch-nemesis, a friend and great job. Sure, he had to put up with Mycroft every now and then but everything else was fine. He just wasn’t expecting his father to turn up at a crime scene. He should have, his father was Harry Potter, after all.





	1. CHAPTER ONE - “Allie” and “Cheese”.

**Author's Note:**

> [December 19th, 2017]

**CHAPTER ONE - "Allie" and "Cheese".**

* * *

Sherlock was having a good day, boring but good. He'd gotten up, his tea had been ready and there was a note from John, _handwriting slanted unnaturally_, he had been late for work. Obviously. Sherlock's day didn't take an extreme veer from mediocre to interesting until later in the day. In fact, it didn't become much more interesting until the arrival of an out of breath and red John, who had quite clearly ran most of the way back to the flat.

No, scrap that, it didn't become much more interesting until John handed over the bundle of papers, _files, with a watermark, __**police report**__. _And with that, he had leapt up from his seat whilst stripping his outer dressing gown and throwing on his coat. "Do hurry up, John" he called over his shoulder to the utterly bewildered man behind him, "We have a case!"

Storming down the stairs, he opened the file and sat in the cab, the door shut -John must have gotten in. He began to read through the information that had been printed on the the paper;

**Victim: **_Lord_ _Sylvester Selwyn_

**Gender: **_Male_ **Age: **_56_

**Assumed cause of death**: _Murder, disembowelment._

Beneath the information was an ID, _not normal, a license of some kind_, which had been photocopied, _crooked, shaking hands? In a hurry, unsettled, _and behind that a packet of pictures were attached. Depicted in the images was a man, presumably Sylvester, had been strung up his arms by two nails _-common, can be brought from B&Q- _there were cuts mauling the body, _avoiding arteries - deliberate, didn't want the victim to bleed out- _and then finally, the most eye-drawing feature of the corpse; the huge slit that ran across it. From this incision there was a cascade of blood, intestines and other such organs.

Personally, Sherlock had seen some cases of disembowelment during his time as a consulting detective, the criminals behind these unspeakable acts were always more intelligent and more erratic and _much more careful_ compared to the average murderer. It made it so much more _entertaining _to catch them. However, despite having experienced similar cases in his career, he had never seen one quite as extreme as this.

Slowly, he handed the images over John, causing him to rapidly exhale as though he had been hit in his stomach and had the air forcibly expelled from his lungs -_he is shocked, his morals will mean that he is horrified._

They were drawing nearer to the abandoned block of flats where the body was found, _too little blood in the images for the murder to have taken place there, _and examined the close-ups of the wounds; _they were exact, made by a surgeon? But no, the lines were almost too perfect…_

"...Sherlock!"

Blinking rapidly at John's exclamation, Sherlock realised that they had come to a stop and was instantly annoyed at his own inattention. Climbing out of the cab he threw the money for the journey at the driver. Emerging, he took in his surroundings. It had rained the night before, and there were only some stepping stones,which were buried beneath the overgrown grass to get to the entrance of the building, so it is probable that there are some footprints imprinted in the mud, but the mud and undergrowth remained completely undisturbed apart from the wooden planks that Scotland Yard had laid down to prevent the loss of evidence.

Seeing that Lestrade was approaching, he turned to him, "Where's the body?"

"This way," Lestrade responded, running his hands through his hair, _a nervous habit that he has picked up recently, he is unsettled._

Lestrade guided them through the hall of the building, "We are still unsure as to who called us to come and investigate, they used a payphone and did not provide us with a name, we could see no sign of forced entry and all of the doors and windows were locked and undamaged at our arrival and, well, you are already aware of what we found."

John hummed in response, a frown marring his weathered features. Blocking them out, Sherlock examined the dark hallways of the abandoned block of flats, but nothing had been disturbed; even he could admit that it was rather unnerving.

Clearing his throat, Lestrade gestured behind him and begun to turn, "I'm just going to leave you two to it." And with that, he left the room -Sherlock could hear him yelling at offer officers in the building. Sherlock turned his attention back to the body.

His earlier deduction of the murder not occurring there still seemed extremely probable, "It couldn't have happened here," he informed John. "The wooden floors are sanded down and unvarnished, the blood from the body would have soaked into the wood -like it has under the body- and it would have been exceedingly difficult to clean out, even if the murderer were to try there would still be evidence of blood."

John stared at him, Sherlock noticed that he avoided looking at the body, _it most likely makes him uncomfortable -reminds him of incidents in Afghanistan?_

"So, if the murder didn't take place here, where?"

Sherlock considered John for a moment, thinking back to the hallways of the old flat building, all of which had been lit almost blindingly by the lights that Scotland Yard had brought, but there was no blood on the floor, no sign that the mutilated body had been dragged to the room that he currently stood in. He turned to stare at what was once the victim's face, Selwyn's jaw was unhinged, he was missing his tongue. The man was also lacking his eyes, instead there was a bloodied mass of gore which was vacantly gazing at the doorway. Sylvester Selwyn was the embodiment of barbarity.

"I can't be sure," Sherlock informed him after a moment. "Everything appears to be too _unnatural. _There is no evidence to show how the body got here, all of the blood that we can see is not a result of Selwyn being butchered -there's not enough of it."

John stared at Sherlock, and Sherlock watched as his companion approached the body, wondering if John's medical career could offer him an alternative insight. Pulling on the gloves provided by Scotland Yard, John reached out to to look at the lacerations when the sound of loud voices interrupted them.

Sherlock watched as John's brow furrowed and he turned towards the door. John scowled.

"What is going on down there?" Questioned the blonde man, as he marched out the door and towards the disturbance.

Ignoring the sounds, the consulting detective turned back to the victim, fully intending to continue with his investigation; but the shouting grew louder and he could have sworn that he recognised one of the many voices amongst the pandemonium downstairs.

However, the longer he stood there, the more his curiosity pestered him, the harder he found it to focus on the crime scene in front of him because _why does he recognise a voice that isn't John or Lestrade? _Sherlock growled in frustration and turned with a swirl of his coat.

Tumbling down the stairs, he listened to the the shouting, attempting to figure out what they were talking about, _the imperative 'leave' is frequently repeated, Scotland Yard wishes for the newcomers to leave? Or is it the other way around?_

Stepping into one of the many downstairs room -_seems to have set up at as a base, equipment is scattered around the room- _his vision was immediately bombarded by red and _people in red robes._

Oh no.

The room fell silent as its occupants turned their attention to him, _oh no please don't let them be here- _"Allie!"

Sherlock's shoulders tensed.

"I no longer go by that name, Cheese."

"Oh you'll always be Allie to me Allie!"

Sherlock observed how the detectives from Scotland Yard watched the truly bizarre conversation between him and 'Cheese' play out in bewilderment. He felt John shift closer to him as a man with auburn hair pushed himself through the sea of red robe, a slightly crooked grin on his face to go with his fly-away hair. His eyes sparkled.

"Cheese, call me Allie again I dare you." Sherlock felt his face harden, he was acting completely differently to his normal aloof self, but _damnit_ that man always knew _just _what to say to infuriate him.

"Aw, c'mon Al-"

"Enough, boys."

Sherlock turned towards the voice, it had come from the direction of Lestrade but it wasn't the man himself. The consulting detective found himself staring into a pair of eyes that, although hidden behind glasses, reflected his own, and said eyes belonged to a man who was slightly shorter than Sherlock, and he had the same fly-away style hair as 'Cheese' but it is obvious that his hair had once been as dark as the consulting detective's, yet it had begun to lose colour with the man's age -greying at his temples and along the sides of his head. Sherlock froze.

"Now," the older man began, noticing that he had caught everyone's attention. "James, stop antagonising your brother, Albus, please ask your, do you consider them friends? Uh, ask your associates to leave. I am officially taking over the investigation into the murder of Lord Sylvester Selwyn." He trailed off and Sherlock was able to hear him mutter "what an unfortunate name".

Sherlock continued to stare at him, he had left the name _Albus _behind just over a decade ago.

James responded and Sherlock echoed him with a "Yes, dad."

When John burst out an astonished, "_What?_" and Sherlock thought that it summed up the situation perfectly.


	2. CHAPTER TWO: Blue Hair?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [January 18th 2018]

**CHAPTER TWO: Blue Hair?!**

* * *

John was having a rather peculiar day. He had seen several men clothed in sickly green dresses who had proceeded to walk into a store window, which played host to two mannequins that appeared to be rather worn and vanished. John had blinked slowly before convincing himself that; _no_, those men did not just disappear,_ I've just had one too many coffees_. And with that he just carried on with his day, playing this bizarre off as some coffee induced hallucination.

Perhaps he shouldn't have.

Now, however, John's day had taken a deep dive from peculiar right down to outlandish.

John was having a very outlandish day.

And to put the cherry on top, so to speak, he was now stood in an old, derelict block of flats watching the confrontation between Sherlock (he refused to think of the nickname 'Allie', dare he snicker) and the auburn-haired man that he referred to as 'Cheese' -honestly, what was it with these awful nicknames? He could practically feel his own confusion building as Sherlock spoke with the man without his usual underlying tone of disdain that John had grown used to scolding him for; in fact, Sherlock spoke to him with a tone of familiarity that he didn't even use when he spoke with John and he was unsure whether he should feel offended or not.

He probably should be.

But as soon as that thought rocketed through his mind, it was gone just as promptly, chased away by the fact that Sherlock had just referred to _the-man-who-had-called-him-Albus-and-claimed-that-Cheese-James?-was-his-brother_as _dad_ and-

"What?" he blurted out, failing to follow his own train of thought.

The room fell silent, all eyes swivelling to him at his outburst, the man that was about his height, with startling green eyes, grinned crookedly at him.

"I'm Harry, Albus' father, but I'm sure that he failed to mention that. Am I correct in believing so?" His emerald eyes sparkled in humor, and he stood before him in such a way that he appeared completely at ease with the situation that he was in: as though he was merely discussing Britain's rather wearisome weather. John could only nod.

Harry let out a throaty chuckle, amused by the circumstances that he was apart of, "Ah, he still wishes to remain completely independent of his family then?" He stared at Harry blankly, was he expecting him to answer?

The green-eyed man clapped his hands, "RIGHT," he silenced the once again boisterous crowd, "Scotland Yard, I understand that this entire situation is frustrating, but if you continue to remain on the premises, we will be forced to arrest you. Now, please leave any and all evidence that you have gathered in the hand of one of my men, avoid touching anything else on my crime scene and then vacate the building and the surrounding area. Okay? Thank you!" And then the man smiled a tooth filled smile, causing the room to descend into anarchy.

"Now hang on for just one moment!" they heard, and John witnessed Lestrade fighting his way through his officers and the oddly robed men that had accompanied Harry. "What gives you the authority to order us off of our crime scene?"

Looking over Lestrade's shoulder, John was able to see the startled look on Sherlock's (should he start calling him Albus?) face, it was something akin to a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, clearly not expecting anyone to speak to his father with such audacity. The man stood next to the doctor's friend looked amused as the room fell silent and all eyes turned to the two men.

Harry smiled and stuck out his hand, "Lord Harry James Potter, Head of, well I'm not allowed to say, but I am in charge of these fine gentlemen that have accompanied me to this crime scene, and I am Albus' -although I've heard that you know him as Sherlock- father." With his smile growing ever greater he called over his shoulder to his sons, "That's it -I think- did I forget anything, James?"

"I believe that is pretty much all you're allowed to say, Dad."

"Right, and you are?"

With a look that John felt mimicked his own when he first conversed with the man, was plastered on the DI's face and John felt a pang of sympathy for his friend when he blindly reached out to shake the man's hand, dumbly introducing himself a DI Greg Lestrade.

"Greg, can I call you Greg? I'm legally taking control of your crime scene as, from what we can tell, it is very much not your division. And as for my authority, well, he should be arriving any moment."

John then observed Harry's features arranged themselves in a manner that the doctor had begun to associate as Sherlock's '_I'm extremely pleased with myself so you should stop being an idiot_' look. In fact, the closer that John looked, the increasing amount of similarities between this man and his friend became abundantly more clear, they had the same structured face, both were ridiculously lean and during the brief time that John had even known that Sherlock had a living father (not even an hour, if that) he couldn't help but to notice how strikingly similar their mannerisms could be.

But then, in a truly Sherlockian fashion, Harry's 'authority' arrived with Sherlock's exclamation detest, "_Mycroft_".

Turning the room to look at the other Holmes brother, John was rendered speechless -surely _this_ wasn't Mycroft. Having to force his eyes away from the bright blue hair on the man's head (shouldn't that be all the proof that he needed?) he scanned the man's lean frame, failing to find any similarities between him and the man that he knew as Mycroft Holmes. His face held none of the excess weight that Mycroft's did, he was slightly taller, had gold tinted eyes and _had blue hair_.

How could this possibly be the British Government?

"Really, Sherlock? Must you be so immature?" John started, no matter how odd he looked, there was no mistaking Mycroft exasperated tone.

"I'll stop being immature when you all _leave_." Mycroft snorted and turned to Harry.

"I've retrieved the paperwork you need, godfather, but I shan't be doing it again." He sniffed, straightening his back. Harry continued to grin.

"You spent far too much time with Draco as a child." The man sniped, flicking through the paperwork that had been handed to him, the room remains silent, observing the events occurring.

"Funny," said Mycroft. "He says the same about you."

The green-eyed man shrugged and handed the paperwork to Lestrade, "I am now in complete control of the crime scene, please leave."

Watching as Lestrade nodded and ordered his men to leave, John absentmindedly noticed that the Holmes siblings and the man who may or may not be their brother had moved to stand behind Harry.

John really needed to sit down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [February 2nd 2018]


	3. CHAPTER THREE: Leaving Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [October 4th, 2018]

**CHAPTER THREE: Leaving Home**

* * *

Albus was more intelligent than other children -even James who is several years older than him. The thing is, Albus never really thought of himself as intelligent, sure he could hold long, drawn-out conversations with his aunt Hermione _but _his dad could solve crimes and catch murderers, which, in his own opinion, made him the most intelligent out of his many, _many _family members.

When he thought about it, Albus knew that he wasn't as intelligent and as cool as Teddy (_he has blue hair!) _nor was he as likable as James, who could make a door handle laugh, Albus would know, he saw him do it, and he wasn't as _adorable _as Lily. If he was being honest, all that Albus really did know was that he was _amazing _at exploding snap (nobody could beat him) and that, when he was older, he was going to be a pirate.

* * *

Albus is five and he couldn't be any more enthusiastic about his first day at muggle school if he tried, this was his chance to make friends that _he isn't related to_. Sure, James hated school with a passion, but that was _James _and he hated anything that involved work -heaven forbid he must use some of the 100 billion neurons in his brain that aren't necessary for survival. He didn't pay much attention to what James had to say about school. Albus tried to ask Teddy what he thought about school but his godbrother just shot him an unimpressed look and ignored him, Albus didn't take it to heart, his dad told him that Teddy just thinks that he's 'too cool' to 'acknowledge them'. Albus supposes that it's a teenager thing.

On that day that Albus finally starts school, he practically drags his dad there by the hand that clutches his own, he had woken up so early that morning, the butterflies in his stomach almost uncomfortable, that he had resorted to waking his dad up (his mum was travelling with her quidditch team, she regrets that she couldn't be their). His dad had taken this in stride, making breakfast and ensuring that Albus had packed his bookbag for the day, eventually deciding that he would walk Albus to school instead of disapparating, resulting in Albus practically dragging him to the school.

Their arrival at Albus' primary school was greeted with (much to Albus' confusion) the heart wrenching sobs of children who didn't want to separate from their parents, desperately clutching at their trouser legs. Albus' nose crinkled in confusion, "Dad," he said, tugging at the said man's hand, "why are they crying?"

"Well," he chuckled at him, his ever-present amusement flashing in his eyes, "some children are scared about going to school."

"Why?" Albus pestered.

"Because it's something new, and because it's new, it becomes scary."

"That's stupid." He stated with as much conviction as possible.

"Yes," his dad laughed. "yes, I suppose it is."

* * *

As it turns out, Albus didn't really enjoy school very much, children were unnecessarily cruel, especially to those who are different. And Albus was different. He already knew how to read and write and do _everything _that the teacher was attempting to teach them, and the other children didn't like that.

More often than not, Albus left school in tears, his teacher (he could never remember her name) held hushed conversations with whatever parent was picking him up that day. He was beginning to see why James hated school so much.

* * *

"Am I a freak?" Albus whispered to his dad, as he tucked him into bed. The warm expression on his dad's face morphed into one of deep sadness, he perched on Albus's bed. "Sorry."

"No, no, no," his dad cooed. "don't apologise, never apologise when you've done nothing wrong." The man opened his arms, and Albus launched himself into them.

"Why do they call me that? Why don't they like me?"

Sighing deeply, he responded; "Because you're different Albus, and people tend not to like that. But y'know what? That doesn't matter, because you're _you _Albus and that's all that matters, okay? What others think _does not affect you, they're opinions do not matter _because you are _perfect just the way you are_. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Albus nodded, climbing back into bed and allowing his dad to tuck him back in.

"Goodnight dad."

"Goodnight Albus, I love you."

Later, as Albus finally began to drift off to sleep, he could see an outline of a person stood in his doorway. Teddy's voice reverberated throughout his room, "Caring is not an advantage, Albus."

And then, he was gone.

* * *

By the time that Albus turned ten, he had begun to take Teddy's words to heart, the opinions of his classmates began to lose whatever hold they had had on his emotions. He didn't care.

* * *

When he was eleven, some of his old anxieties began to creep back, what if he was sorted into Slytherin? Would his family hate him? His dad assured him that they wouldn't, but he couldn't stop the anxieties that gnawed at the back of his mind -no matter how illogical they were.

Albus spent the journey on the Hogwarts Express alone. He didn't see the need to interact with any of his peers, surely, they would just be as ignorant as his previous classmate were. And so, as he arrived at Hogwarts with robes pristine, head held high and an aura of faux-confidence surrounding him.

This confidence must have somehow stood out or have seemed somewhat more comforting when compared to the demeaners of the other, more jittery, first year, as Albus watched as a boy (shorter than himself) with possibly the brightest blonde hair that he had ever seen, approached him. Albus observed the way that the boy held himself -he came across as someone who knew how to deal with nerve-inducing situations but struggled to apply it to real life. _Ravenclaw, _Albus determined before the boy (Scorpius, apparently) had even gotten the chance to introduce himself.

Albus was possibly the most surprised when the boy was sorted into Gryffindor and was conceivably even more so when he was sorted into _Slytherin _of all place.

It was a night of surprises but the greatest one of all was the friend that Albus had found in the small, blonde-haired, oddly named Gryffindor.

* * *

At the end of his first year at Hogwarts, Albus realised two things; one, the education system in the wizarding world was a joke (they seriously thought that having a ghost that had been dead for around a hundred years was a good idea?) and two, if he was ever going to achieve anything in life he was going to need to change his name. No, he was not joking. Throughout his first year he was only ever acknowledged as 'the son of the man-who-conquered', 'the son of the youngest head Auror to ever get the job' and on some (very rare) occasions he is identified as 'the boy named after the great Albus Dumbledore and the man who killed said great Albus Dumbledore' the entire thing bothersome and Albus absolutely _loathed _being referred to as such. He would find a way to be something completely and utterly different to what was expected of him.

He would.

And the entire thing will be oh-so entertaining.

* * *

In the years that followed, Albus continued to create a separate identity for himself, never really making any friends -okay, that wasn't entirely true he had one friend, but he was, if Albus were asked to describe him, like a walking disaster. Scorpius had a tendency to just _be _in a continuous state of righteousness competing with a passive aggressive anger just below the surface, it was amusing to watch but Albus was sure that if the _accio _spell didn't exists, his friend would spend most of his time in a continuous sprint from one side of the castle to the other, having always forgotten something of value (Albus still remembers the time that Scorpius had forgotten his shoes and didn't notice until their flying lessons, the last lesson of the day).

Despite this, it wasn't until something particularly odd (_something tragic_, his traitorous mind would whisper) involving Scorpius in their seventh year, did he truly decide that he was going to leave the wizarding world. The death of his only friend.

Scorpius's death.

It was taken to be a tragic incident, a suicide as his body was found hanging by his neck in the astronomy tower, but Albus knew otherwise, Scorpius had everything he needed with him. He never had everything on him, his bag was too organised, his uniform too neat and his neck unaffected by the apparent drop to his death that he had experienced. Everything was just _too perfect_.

When he told his father about his suspicions, his father looked at him sadly, "I won't tell you that you're wrong," his father said. "there is something odd about his death, but all the evidence that the aurors on the scene had found points to suicide." The man pauses for a moment, "If you think they're wrong, Albus, then gather the evidence and prove them wrong. Now, help your mother by setting the table."

Albus took these words to heart, _prove them wrong, _and prove them wrong he did. The very first thing he was able to correct the aurors' on was exactly _how _Scorpius had died -the bruising around his neck was made post-mortem and there was no damage to his spine, meaning that he could not have hanged himself like the aurors' had first assumed. All evidence pointed towards the killing curse.

Next, he established a motive, not one that had been directed at Scorpius himself, but the surname that he possessed -Malfoy. This however, did not reduced the number of suspects greatly. So Albus turned to this capable of committing the crime, working his way through his peers to begin with, easily dismissing them (Scorpius was well liked among them, and even those who had disliked him had not resorted to his murder) and causing him to turn his attention to his teacher, all of them had been teaching here for years -all except for one. The Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. She was rather boring individual, the most interesting thing about her being the rather gruesome burn the twists around her slim neck, disappearing below her shirt -a scar from the first war, he is informed. She has a potential motive, so he adds the evidence to his archive. Now he just needs to prove it.

In the end, proving it wasn't very hard, Albus had convinced his father to visit Hogwarts to show him the evidence that he had gathered, causing the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher to panic (parents don't visit their children whilst they're attending school, so for what reason would the Head Auror be visiting?) and admitted to the murder.

With the admittance, Albus was on a high that he had never felt before, filled with a feeling of pride that only doubled when his father smiled and winked at him, "You proved them wrong." He stated.

"Yes," Albus responded.

Later, Albus' high came to an end and the grief he felt for his friend set in. So, he left the wizarding world and began to go by the name Sherlock, meaning "fair-haired" in memory of only friend.

* * *

Albus's family were very accepting about his wish to leave the wizarding world, understanding that he needed to do something for himself, without his father's name hanging over his head. It began well but grief dug its long, twisted claws into Albus, he soon turned to drugs, chasing the high he had felt when he solved his friend's murder.

It wasn't long before he overdosed, and Teddy became known as Mycroft Holmes, the elder brother of Sherlock Holmes, following a self-appointed task of keeping his younger brother safe.

And the rest, well, the rest is (as it is said) history.

Sherlock just wished he knew how he was going to explain it all to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [October 5th, 2018]


	4. CHAPTER FOUR: But Dad!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [September 3rd, 2019]

**CHAPTER FOUR: But Dad!**

* * *

John watched as Scotland Yard shuffled begrudgingly out of the building, muttering, from what he could hear, some rather unsavoury complaints about the weirdly dressed people, who, as if receiving a wordless command, had begun to disband and survey the building. He continued to stand stationary, feeling an increasing level of awkwardness every time a member of the Yard trudges sulkily out of the door, beginning to feel as though he was considered a part of this insanity, and to them, maybe his friendship with a seemingly un-befriend-able man, meant he was.

Dragging his eyes away from the exit, John once again, re-focused on the peculiar combination that was apparently Sherlock's family. The man who had introduced himself as Sherlock's father, Harry, he reminded himself, stood slightly in front of the three men and stood in a military-esque stance that John was familiar with. Slightly to the right stood James, who was wearing a similar uniform to his father (well, John had assumed it was a uniform as those who had accompanied them were also garbed similarly) but with less decoration on his, what John could only describe, as a robe. The younger man's eyes were fixed upon the back of Harry's head as he attempted to mimic his elder's stance, awaiting further instructions.

"James?", Harry spoke, natural authority spilled from his lips, "follow the beta squad and ensure that they are not destroying the crime scene like a herd of hippogriffs, if I wanted that, I would have asked Hagrid to borrow Witherwings."

"Yes, dad." James then turned on his heel, the combat boot he wore let at an irritated _eeeek _in protest against the uncarpeted floor, and with is chin held high marched from the room.

"Albus, stay where you are." Harry said firmly. John looked to where Sherlock was skulking off behind his father, he had frozen with one foot on the first step and his opposing hand on the railing. His shoulders rose and then fell in a sigh as he turned and walked back towards his father. John blinked slowly in surprise -Sherlock had actually listened to a person of authority, and then done what they asked! Sherlock came to stand where his brother had been prior and John couldn't help but to notice that he stood several inches taller than his father and was mumbling under his breath,

"…_you always do that…"_

Then, Sherlock stood quietly next to his father with a disgruntled look plastered across his face, his arms crossed childishly. Harry looked to his left, where Mycroft (was that even his real name?) stood texting on his phone -John was still attempting to wrap his head around the fact the tall, not quite skinny man with blue hair and a different facial structure to the man that he knew. As if sensing that his godfather was looking at him, he looked up from his phone, meeting his eyes.

"You can leave now Teddy," apparently Mycroft _wasn't _his real name, "I know your job keeps you busy -Merlin, maybe it was Hermione you spent too much time with as a child."

Mycroft, John felt uncomfortable referring to him as Teddy, smirked and moved indulgingly into a hug from Harry, "Maybe," he hummed as he moved back, "but, as you said, I must be off, there are, _matters, _I must attend." With that he began to walk towards the exit to the unmarked car that John could see waiting for him outside.

"And don't forget to call your grandmother!" Mycroft waved his hand distractedly above his head and disappeared from sight.

"Honestly, for the amount of time he spends on that phone, you think he'd remember to call Andromeda." He looked at John as he said this, as though he were searching for his exasperation to be shared. John shuffled on the spot, feeling as though he had to provide a response, but remained unknowing as to how he was expected to respond, so he just shrugged, hoping that it would satisfy those intense green eyes that stared at him, eyes that mirrored his friend's.

Sherlock remained stood to the right of his father, his look of disgruntlement unwavering as he stared slightly down at the older man. Although, John couldn't help but to note the faint look of admiration that was gleaming in Sherlock's eye, a look that he usually reserved only for the most evasive of criminals.

Harry inhaled deeply and turned towards his son, if he hadn't just looked directly at him, John would have felt as though, and to an extent he still did, that he should have left with Scotland Yard.

"I'm going to go check on James and my underlings," the bespectacled man paused momentarily, appearing to think about what he was going to say next, "I know that you will be looking forward to investigating this case, _however_," -the emphasis he placed on this word was accompanied by a stern look –"you must allow me to cross the tees and dot the eyes; you _cannot _run me about like you do the muggle police force, and I will not treat you like one of my aurors; _I am in charge here_ Albus -I will deny you all access if necessary, if you withhold information. Most importantly, whilst I go and disband any unnecessary personnel, you will explain everything. _Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?_"

Sherlock shot an alarmed look at John, "But dad-"

"You know that I don't like to repeat myself Sherlock, do you understand?" And from the coolness of Harry's voice, John received the impression that the man staring up a Sherlock was not the type of person who raised their voice at their children, but the type of parent who made their child feel as though they had disappointed them. And John was convinced that that type of emotional manipulation would have no affect on Sherlock, a man who didn't seem to think anybody's approval.

But then, to John's bewilderment, Sherlock responded, "Understood." Then, as his father left the room, he turned to John, grimacing, "So, I believe that you have questions."

And then, staring at the face which had once again return to an expression of neutrality, John felt his seemingly everlasting confusion transform into annoyance and that annoyance evolved into acute anger. "Yes." He responded firmly. "You better bloody-well bet that I have questions."

* * *

When he entered the room that held the body, James had to walk-out for a moment before re-entering. Ugh, he always hated the more gruesome murders, they always made his stomach roll and his head feel slightly light. He much preferred, as bad as it may sound to some, _living_, victims, he was good with people, he knew how to make them relax and talk to him. Corpses didn't talk.

James would never understand how his father and younger brother could stomach these crime scenes, _well_, he tells a lie, his father he could understand, but Albus had always been an odd little mystery to him. But that was a topic for another time.

Pulling a woollen glove from his pocket, thank you Grandma Weasley, he pinched his nose with it in a desperate attempt to block out the stench of rotting flesh and congealing blood. It wasn't very effective, he had already been struck by the smell when he walked in, one so foul that it lodged itself in the back of his throat, he could taste it. Ugh, he hated investigating murders. Approaching the victim who had been strung like a macabre piece of artwork, James felt his stomach flop again, he winced and turned away from it, instead choosing to observe his colleagues and stopping them from doing anything that he knew his dad wouldn't like.

He stood in the corner furthest away from the body, attempting to ignore it from the corner of his eye – he'd go over the case notes later. However, his position allowed him to witness his dad enter the room and take charge, getting rid of unnecessary aurors and examining the body, unaffected by the smell and grotesque visage laid out before him, all while taking notes in a small pocket notebook.

After he finished, he approached James, and stood in silence next to him, watching his employees work. James spoke first, "You're going to let Albus work the case, aren't you?"

"Yes." His father responded bluntly.

"He-he's technically a civilian." James stuttered.

"Yes," he repeated. "He's also well-known for solving these kind of cases -he can also be like a dog with a bone when it comes to these kinds of cases. I read John's blog. So, yes, I am allowing him to work this case with us: no complaints, James."

"_But dad-"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [September 3rd, 2019]  
Right, so I'm new to using this site and can also be found on ffnet under the same name, but I also figured that i'd also upload on here.   
You guys are lucky that I've done one mass upload, but I feel as though I should warn you that I don't know when I'll next update, so I'll ya when I'll see ya.

**Author's Note:**

> [December 20th, 2017]


End file.
